


Spectral Evidence

by earlgreytea68



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2546276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1692 in Salem, Massachusetts, and it kind of makes sense the townspeople think Sherlock Holmes is a witch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spectral Evidence

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is kind of insane. I apologize for it in advance. 
> 
> Happy Halloween (especially to the West Coasters, for whom it is still actually Halloween!)!

Upon reflection, maybe the New World hadn’t been such a good idea. 

“John?” said the man knocking on his door. “John Watson?” 

John Watson sighed. One would think that moving to a barely populated land, building a house far away from the meager population that existed, and never talking to anybody beyond the bare minimum would guarantee one the peace and quiet to sit around and mope about how nothing was ever going to happen in one’s life ever again. 

But no, he couldn’t even be left to his _nothingness_ in peace. 

“Mike Stamford,” said the man when he opened the door, and grinned toothily at him. “Remember? We were at school together. At Cambridge. I imagine I don’t look much as I did then.” And Mike Stamford laughed heartily. 

John just stared at him. School at Cambridge, and here he was in the wilds of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. What, in God’s name, were the _odds_ of this? 

“It’s a small world, isn’t it?” Stamford continued merrily, as if John had people dropping by for tea every day. “I mean, not so small as we once thought. But still!” 

“What are you doing here?” John managed, and his voice sounded rusty, because that was what happened when it was just you and an empty room and a farm overrun with wildlife that you had a love-hate relationship with, all day, every day. 

“The New World needs doctors, too, eh? But I thought you went off to the Continent to get shot at. What happened?” 

“I got shot,” said John bluntly. 

“Oh,” said Stamford awkwardly, and looked, for the first time, a little bit abashed. 

“Lovely catching up with you,” began John, because he didn’t want to exchange pleasantries about how Stamford was probably doing excellently and John had ruined his own life by running off thinking he was invincible on battlefields he hadn’t even _cared_ about. 

“No. Wait. This isn’t just a social call.” 

“Isn’t just a social call?” drawled John sarcastically. “You didn’t spend half a day riding out to see me to make a social call? Imagine that.” 

“I’m in Salem these days. You’ve heard about Salem these days?” 

John shook his head and gestured to the deserted land all around them. “How would I have heard about Salem these days?” 

“You come into town sometimes,” said Stamford awkwardly. “It’s how I knew you were in the area to begin with. The far side of Wenham Lake, they said.” 

God’s truth, you couldn’t say anything to anyone, thought John. “Why was I relevant to any conversation you were having with anyone?” John knew he sounded like a sour recluse but…well, he _was_ a sour recluse. 

“We…have a problem…in Salem,” began Stamford delicately. “We are beset by witches.” 

John lifted his eyebrows and said, “Still? Are you still all going on about that? I’d’ve thought you’d’ve come to your senses on that point by now.” 

Stamford looked affronted. “We cannot help it if witches still abound in the place. God is sorely testing the great town of Salem.”

“Indeed,” snorted John. “With idiots.” 

“John!” exclaimed Stamford, appalled. 

“You and I both know there’s no such thing as witches. It’s the year 1692. Really. We are _medical men of science_. And you really come to my house talking to me of _witches_?” 

Stamford frowned. “John, if you’re not careful, you’ll be under suspicion yourself.” 

“Oh, for—” began John, under his breath, then caught Stamford’s expression and decided against blasphemy in the presence of an anxious witch-hunter. “Is that why you’re here? Because you think I’m a witch?”

“No.” Stamford licked his lips. “We have a situation. With one of your neighbors.” 

“My neighbors?” echoed John, thinking of all his lovely deserted land again. 

“The next farm to the north. A witch is living there.” 

“A witch? Really? Well, I wish this witch would improve the weather; this is a terrible drought we’re having.” 

“We need you to secure him for us.” 

“Secure him?” echoed John. “Why can’t you secure him?” 

“He is a witch,” Stamford pointed out reasonably. 

“Yes, and you in Salem seem to be expert at securing witches.” 

“He is…difficult to describe. A most powerful witch. More powerful than any of the others.” Stamford looked around as if expecting someone might be eavesdropping and lowered his voice. “He might be the leader of the witches. Which is why we need you.” 

“Why me?” 

“Your military expertise. You’ve been in wars.” 

“I am not the only man in Salem to have military experience,” John pointed out. 

“But you know Wenham Lake better than any of us. You live here. You know the ins and outs of any escape the witch may try to make.” 

John stared at Stamford. He wanted to ask if Stamford really believed all of this witch balderdash. 

Then Stamford said, “It’s just that you wouldn’t want me to report back to Salem that you are refusing to help in the fight against the witches. It might throw suspicion back on yourself.” 

***

John hated himself for riding up to his northern neighbor’s house, but he decided he needed to at least warn the fellow of the suspicion being cast upon him. Presumably he would leave the area and John could say the witch had cursed him or whatever lie the populace of Salem might be inclined to accept to leave John alone. 

And then maybe John would leave the area, too, because clearly everyone in the area had gone insane. 

His neighbor’s house was, frankly, a mess. The outside was littered with piles of random detritus that John had to pick his way through. Much of it looked like various types of herbs and plants that he was drying. John had to admit that, if you were a witch, this was a lot like what your garden might look like. 

He arrived at the door to the small house and knocked smartly and waited, but no one answered. John walked around the house but saw no one in view. He went back to the front of the house and peered through the one tiny window. It was so grimy that he couldn’t even see inside. 

John wasn’t in the habit of going into other people’s houses uninvited. Nor was he in the habit of thinking people were witches. But, honestly, why did anyone need _so many_ weird plants all around their house. 

John nudged the door and it swung inside easily. 

The room was slightly bigger than John’s house was and far more full of stuff. It was _chock full_ of stuff. There were many different-sized bottles and vases and decanters filled with what, to John’s horrified and possibly overactive mind, looked like potions. There was a human skull sitting by the hearth. A _human skull_. There were taxidermied animals in random piles. And every place where a book could have been thrown had a book thrown onto it. 

“Are you who they sent? You don’t even live in Salem,” said a deep voice behind him, and John whirled, caught out and startled. 

The man was standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the bright sunlight behind him. He was taller than John, and very slender, and it almost looked as if a halo was glowing over his head. 

Then he stepped into the room and John could focus on him properly and the halo proved itself to be just a bunch of thick, wavy hair, dark but with definite red highlights the sun had been picking up. He had pale skin and unclassifiable eyes and, frankly, if John had had to draw a sketch of a male witch he probably would have drawn this man. 

“How do you know I don’t live in Salem?” stammered John, wondering if he was wrong and witches existed after all. 

“Because you are obviously my neighbor from the south. It was all over your horse’s hooves.” The man sounded almost bored. 

“What was?” John asked, eyes wide. 

“The _mud_. It’s Wenham Lake mud. _Obviously_. But I supposed you will take this as evidence of my witchiness. The fact that I _notice_ things, and of course that I have _books_. Books are clearly the works of the Devil, are they not?” 

John looked at the piles of books, and then back to the skull by the hearth. “Actually,” he pointed out, “you might want to worry a bit more about having human skulls hanging about the place.” 

After a moment, the man laughed. 

John was surprised and then, oddly, charmed. It was just, John thought, that it had been a long time since he had been in company. That was all it was. 

“I am Sherlock Holmes,” said the man. “And Sherlock, I am assured, is an extremely suspicious witch name. It is not my given name. My given name is William. Which is a perfectly normal and saintly name.” 

“Then why do you go by Sherlock?” 

“Because I am not a saint,” he said flatly. “What is your name?” 

“John Watson.” 

“ _John_ ,” snorted Sherlock. “Of course it is. Everyone in this bloody New World is named John, aren’t they? It’s ever so _dull_. My brother runs Virginia, you know, and he told me to come over here because I’d find the New World interesting, but it is _deadly dull. Boring_.” Sherlock suddenly lifted a rifle from where it had been resting against the wall and used it to shoot a hole in the other wall. 

John stared, wide-eyed, at the hole it had left behind, noting now other holes around it, as if Sherlock had been using the wall for target practice. “That is going to be terrible in the wintertime. How are you going to keep warm?”

“Ugh, keeping warm is _boring_ ,” complained Sherlock, and flung himself back onto his bed. 

“Hang on,” said John, catching up a bit with the conversation. “Your brother is the Royal Governor in Virginia? Why don’t you go see him and save yourself from this witch nonsense?”

“He’s not the Royal Governor, he just runs the colony. And this colony, of course. And every colony. And England itself.” 

“Oh, so your brother is King William, is he?” 

Sherlock chuckled. “You make a terrible warden, you know. How do you propose to arrest me and bring me to Salem? Do you think I’m going to go willingly?” 

“No, of course not. I mean, of course I’m not going to bring you to Salem.” 

Sherlock regarded him with his odd eyes. “Isn’t that why you’re here? Didn’t they tell you to fetch me to bring me to Salem?”

“Yes, but _obviously_ I’m not going to do that.” 

“Why not?” asked Sherlock, eyes keen. 

“Because you are obviously not a witch.” 

“Why do you say that? All of the evidence would tell you I’m a witch, wouldn’t it?” 

“There’s no such thing as witches,” John said firmly. 

Sherlock sat up suddenly on the bed, his eyes gleaming. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” 

John blinked. “How—”

“An army doctor, even.” 

John couldn’t even come up with anything to say in response to that. He just stared in shock. 

“Seen a lot of dead bodies then?” 

“Yes,” said John slowly. 

“Want to see some more?” 

“What?” said John, startled. 

Sherlock grinned at him. “Rethinking whether I’m a witch, aren’t you?” 

***

Sherlock had an icehouse, and it was struggling in these hot, late days of summer. The stench in it was overpowering. John put his sleeve over his nose and stared at the dead body laid out in the icehouse. 

“Why do you have a dead body?” he asked, trying not to panic. 

“I didn’t kill him.” 

“I didn’t think you did. But none of this is helping your witchiness argument in the least.” 

“The Indians bring me their dead sometimes. When they’re worried. Sometimes odd things happen. They talk about the spirits. I talk about poisonous berries. Anyway, they’ve had a rush of people taking their own lives.” 

“Why?” asked John. 

“No reason that makes sense. I think someone’s killing them and making it look as if they killed themselves.” 

“Who would do something like that?” asked John, perplexed. 

Sherlock was silent for a moment. Then he suggested, “A witch?” 

***

John would normally have avoided going back into town for a while, but he felt like he needed to talk to someone about his odd neighbor who was investigating murders and refusing to lay low. John didn’t know why he felt responsible for Sherlock’s safety. Then again, maybe it was the fact that he was supposed to be responsible for _eliminating_ that safety. 

He tracked down Stamford, who said, “Good. Did you bring Sherlock Holmes?” 

“No,” John said. 

Stamford looked appalled. “Why not?” 

John wanted to say: _Because I don’t drag people places against their will_. What he said was, “I’m not qualified to capture a witch.” 

“Oh, he won’t do anything to you,” said Stamford dismissively. 

“Why wouldn’t he, if he is indeed a witch? Shouldn’t people be dropping dead left and right around here if there are all these witches running around?” 

“They’re cursing our animals. The cows’ milk is sour, you know.”

John lifted his eyebrows. “Every cow?” 

“No. But _some_ of the cows. That’s how witches operate.” Stamford sniffed a little bit. “You can speak to Lestrade about it. He’s been handling the witch raids.” 

“Then why can’t Lestrade go after Sherlock Holmes?”

“They have an inappropriate history. Moriarty says he doesn’t trust Lestrade with him. To be honest, if you ask me, Miss Donovan told Moriarty that Lestrade is partial to Holmes. Lestrade might even be a witch, too.”

John just stared. “So you’re telling me that the head of your witch raids is actually a witch?” 

“I know,” said Stamford ruefully. “It’s madness, right?” 

John shook it off a bit. Everyone in this town had gone completely _insane_. John might want to pack up and leave along with Sherlock. “Who’s this Moriarty?” 

“Judge Moriarty. He’s presiding over the trials.” 

“I would like to meet him,” muttered John. 

“That can be arranged,” said a voice behind him, and John turned. 

“Oh!” stammered Stamford. “Judge Moriarty. This is Captain Watson. Remember I was telling you?”

“Lives by Wenham Lake,” said Moriarty, narrowing cold, dark eyes at John. “Near the infamous Mr. Holmes.” 

“Yeah,” John agreed. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you. Stamford wasn’t clear when he came out, and if I’m going to act as some kind of warden, I’d like to know what the evidence against Holmes is.” 

Moriarty looked amused. “Have you met him, Captain?” 

“Briefly,” said John. 

“Then you know what the evidence is, do you not?” Moriarty leaned forward and fixed John with a terrifying smile. “Don’t tell me you’ve become Holmes’s _pet_?” 

John frowned, feeling unsettled by Moriarty and hating it. “What does that mean?” 

Moriarty pitched his voice low. “Tell Mr. Holmes to come out and play. Or people will keep dying.” 

John thought of Sherlock investigating dead Indians. “What people?” 

Moriarty straightened and smiled again. “Haven’t you heard, Captain Watson? We good folk of Salem are purging godlessness from the Earth.” He turned and strode away jauntily, tossing back over his shoulder, “Fare-thee-well!”

John looked back at Stamford. “So. _He’s_ not terrifying at all.” 

“Keep your head down, John,” Stamford said seriously. “I know you’re not good at that but…keep your head down.” 

***

“I’ve been told to keep my head down,” John told Sherlock when he found him sprawled on his back in the mud by the lake, his hands pressed together and his index fingers under his chin. 

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. 

“Everyone in Salem is insane, and they’ve got their eyes focused on you. If I were you I would leave if you want to keep _breathing_.” 

“Oh, breathing, breathing’s boring,” murmured Sherlock. 

“No, it really isn’t,” snapped John, annoyed since Sherlock hadn’t even opened his eyes. “What are you doing anyway?” 

“Thinking. Or trying to. People keep talking.” 

“What people?” 

“You. You’re very loud. Especially your thoughts. You have very loud thoughts.” 

“Fine. I’ll leave. Just so you know: I’m supposed to deliver you back to Salem or else basically I’m going to be hanged as a witch, too.” 

“There’s no such thing as witches, John.” 

“That _doesn’t matter to them_. Would you take this _seriously_? That Moriarty’s creepy, and I think he’s obsessed with you.” 

Sherlock’s eyes finally opened. “Moriarty?” 

John was relieved to have finally caught his interest. “Yes. Do you know him?” 

“Yes,” said Sherlock shortly and sat up. “What did he say to you? Tell me exactly what he said.” 

“He said…” John blinked, bewildered at Sherlock’s sudden transformation. “He said, I don’t know, he said that you should come out and play or people will keep dying.” 

“Did he?” mused Sherlock. “Did he say that exactly? Well, we must leave immediately for town. Get the horses ready.” 

“Okay,” said John slowly, trying to process Sherlock’s sudden change of heart. 

“Are you doing it?” Sherlock demanded, throwing it back over his shoulder as he walked up to his house. “Have you done it?” 

“Hang on,” John said, and hurried after him. “You want to go _to town_? That’s a death wish, Sherlock.” 

“I promise you I don’t have a death wish.” 

“Oh, no?” John cocked an eyebrow. “Moriarty’s going to have you hanged.” 

“Surely not immediately. First he’ll try some clever witch torture, no? Drowning and crushing and drawing and quartering. That’s more Moriarty’s style, at first.” 

“Those don’t sound better than hanging,” John pointed out, watching Sherlock toss stuff around in his house. “What are you doing?” 

“Going into battle, John,” Sherlock responded, kneeling, voice muffled because he was mostly under his bed. “Need my armor.” 

“You’ve met this Moriarty?” 

“Haven’t made his acquaintance face-to-face. Only ever heard rumors of his brilliance.” Sherlock stood, holding an extremely raggedy coat. “What do you think? Is this a witch’s coat? I should look the part, don’t you think?” 

“No, I think you should _absolutely not_ look the part. What’s Moriarty supposed to be brilliant for?” 

Sherlock was shrugging on the coat. “Killing people.” 

“Yes. Lots of people he’s claiming are witches.” 

“No. The Indians. That’s what he’s talking about. People will keep dying until I come out to play.” 

“He’s killing the Indians, too?” 

“He’s Moriarty. We can’t underestimate him.” 

“I really don’t think we should go to town.” 

“If we don’t go to town, he’ll just keep killing people. Is that what you want?” 

John looked away and swore and rubbed his hand over his face. 

“Careful, John,” Sherlock warned him mildly. “You’ll be hanged for blasphemy.” 

***

It was dark by the time they got into town, and everybody seemed to be asleep. 

“The watch is going to find us and hang us just for being out at this time,” John hissed. “This alone makes us look like witches.”

“Relax, I’ll be sure to say I’ve only bewitched you and will let you out of my spell before they kill me.” 

“That isn’t especially comforting, Sherlock. I don’t want either one of us to die.” 

Sherlock looked at him assessingly. John couldn’t really see him—the moon was mostly obscured by dark, scuttling clouds—but he could feel the weight of the gaze nonetheless. “Don’t you? Interesting.” 

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “Of course I don’t want you to _die_.” 

“Why not? You’ve just met me. For all you know, I _am_ a witch. Or at least someone killing all the Indians.” 

It didn’t feel like John had just met him. John hesitated, uncomfortable, because it was true that he had zero reason to trust Sherlock as much as he was doing, considering what everyone else had told him about him. “You’re not. I know you’re not.”

“You just care what other people think of me?” 

“Of course I do. If what other people think of you is going to get you killed.” 

“Here we are,” said Sherlock, pulling his horse to a stop. 

John looked at the house they were in front of, went to dismount from his horse. 

Sherlock stilled him with a hand on his arm. “No. You stay here.” 

“You’re going to go in there alone?” John said disbelievingly. 

“I have to,” Sherlock said grimly as he dismounted. 

John watched him walk to the door and then walk right into the house. He set his jaw and said, “Like hell,” and dismounted his own horse. 

***

John circled the house, looking for signs of life inside it, tripping over a cat so black that it hadn’t been visible in the darkness. The cat yowled and scurried away and John cursed it and kept walking around the house. Finally there was light at the very back of the house, where there was a small, angled-roof room. There was a single window, and John looked around, trying to find the proper vantage point to see into it. 

He settled for climbing halfway up a small woodshed that was nearby, because from there he could see into the room. It was a small room, crowded with what looked like drying herbs of various types. John couldn’t see the source of his light but it seemed to be a fireplace, because it was below Moriarty and Sherlock, casting creepy shadows upward. They appeared to be talking, and Moriarty was holding out a bundle of herbs to Sherlock, shaking it around. 

“What the devil is that?” muttered John, squinting at the herbs. He didn’t like the look of them. He didn’t like the look of anything in Moriarty’s room. He didn’t like the feel of any of this, either. 

John looked around, thinking maybe he could spot a rock to throw through the window and break the weird atmosphere of that room. No rock…but he did see a rifle, leaning up against the side of the woodshed. 

John looked back to the window. Sherlock’s mouth was pursed in a frown, and he shook his head a little bit as Moriarty danced the herbs in the air over Sherlock’s face. This changed their angle enough that they caught the light, and John blinked. Nightshade. That was definitely nightshade. 

Surely Sherlock knew what nightshade was. Sherlock wasn’t an idiot. That must be why Sherlock was shaking his head. 

Except that now Sherlock was reaching out and slowly taking hold of the nightshade. 

John swore. He waved frantically, hoping to catch Sherlock’s attention. He would have shouted, but he didn’t want to attract Moriarty’s attention and bring down more witch-hunting craziness upon his head. 

Sherlock took the nightshade and sniffed at it, held it near his mouth. 

Was he _mad_? John grabbed the rifle before he could think himself out of it, turned back to the tableau he could see through the window. 

Sherlock had the nightshade to his mouth, Sherlock’s mouth opened…

John lifted his rifle and stared down its sights and felt this curious feeling of déjà vu, like he’d already lived this all before, and it all turned out okay. So he was calm as his finger squeezed its way around the trigger—

John woke with a start, the sound of a gunshot echoing through his brain. He stared around him at his room in Baker Street. Breathing hard, he half-fell out of bed and walked over to his window and looked out. It was a twenty-first century London street, paved, with cars driving along it every so often. 

It was definitely _not_ Salem, Massachusetts, during the witch trials. Definitely not. 

John stumbled downstairs, where Sherlock was sitting on the floor behind several piles of herbs. Pretty obvious where the dream had come from. 

“We’re not taking any more cases involving witchcraft,” John told him, staggering into the kitchen for tea. 

“There’s no such thing as witchcraft,” Sherlock answered absently. 

“Christ, I just had the weirdest dream,” muttered John, rubbing at his temples. 

“So did I,” Sherlock said, as he came into the kitchen. “You were a vampire slayer and I was a vampire.” 

John looked at him. “Wait, what?” 

“There was a lot of attempted staking; it was all very phallic.” 

“Wait, _what_?” said John. 

Sherlock blinked at him innocently and asked, “Are you making tea?”


End file.
